


Trickster's Wave

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Flashbacks, Homophobic Slurs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Peterick is end game, Slow Burn, did i really write it if there isn't a slow burn, i'll tag as we go, probably trauma, truant wave au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: "Basically, I took this idealistic, naive little character, and at the beginning of the record, he has the best intentions, the highest hopes, and, as you get towards the middle of the record, he's just such an asshole.And then the character gets really dark..."*Based loosely on Patrick Stump's Truant Wave





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, Patrick Stump said that Truant Wave could totally be a concept album and he had this great quote about the character going dark and stuff and, well, he never gave the character a name so I named it for him. It's Patrick. 
> 
> Um, check out the tags? The prologue alone might be a bit much for some people so definitely keep yourself safe.
> 
> Anyway, if you want further proof that I hate myself, I have another fic going at this time! So, like, my updating schedule should be fun. 
> 
> Really, though, I do plan on posting a ton of stuff over the summer. I had the crappiest month a bit ago and did the cliche thing of distracting myself by pouring all the sour emotions into something I enjoyed and now I have a ton of works just waiting to get posted. So good for anyone who happens to enjoy my writing!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this!

_ Pain isn’t the physical sensation most dictionary definitions would wish people to believe. _

_ It’s not the explosion of hurt beneath his skin or the aching in his throat.  _

_ It’s not the gashes or bruises or fractured bones.  _

_ “Are you disrespecting me?” _

_ Pain’s the sound of fists on flesh, of curses and insults and jeers. _

_ It’s the crimson shade of blood as it drips from his nose onto the suit his mother had picked out for him last week. _

_ It’s his own voice crying out for this to stop, for his attacker to understand, for everything to fade away for just a few seconds, please, god, please! _

_ “I’m just telling you that I—” _

_ Pain’s the familiar boot embedded in his gut when he falls to a familiar floor. _

_ It’s the gasping of his breaths. _

_ It’s the endless threats, the endless tears. _

_ “Are you disrespecting me?” _

_ Pain’s the reason this is happening. _

_ It’s the feeling of being left behind, of being forgotten, of being abandoned. _

_ It’s the misled notion that he might be brave but the crashing realization that he was never meant to stand on his own two feet for long. _

_ “I suppose I am.” _

_ Pain’s the way he begs for forgiveness and cowers like a child. _

_ It’s the last bit of courage remaining in his veins like a drug injected by someone he still trusts. _

_ “You’re a fool. What do you know about the real world? What do you know about him?”  _

_ Pain’s opening his eyes and staring into blue— the same shade as his own— and spitting out a truth better left as a lie. _

_ “I know that I love him. I know that he cared for me more than you ever did.” _

_ Pain’s forcing himself to his feet and it’s the silence which follows. _

_ Pain’s a gash against all he's been taught to hold dear.  _

_ It’s a mess of words that can't be unspoken, broken and bleeding and never meant to heal.  _

_ “Get out.” _

_ Most of all, though? _

_ Pain’s the effort it takes to drag himself outside. It’s the heat of a summer night against biting wounds and searing bruises. _

_ And it’s is the sound of a door locking behind him as he begins to run for the first time in his life.  _

 

_ Pain is everything he knows _


	2. Have You Ever Met Somebody Who Was Perfect?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perfection and flashbacks and things I hope make sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading! And, of course, a huge thanks to anyone who commented!
> 
> So, feel free to blame any and all weirdness on my creative writing class from last year. This is actually a fic that I've spent time working on and outlining rather than, y'know, merely hoping for the best. That means I've taken the few chapters I have written to a few writing workshops, like a total geek, and this is its final form. 
> 
> So. Again. Blame the weirdness on that. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It’s morning in the outskirts of Chicago, the smog-filled sky clearing just enough for early risers to glare up at the glowing clouds as they prevent the sun from shining down. It’s morning in Chicago, the safe dark shade of night still clinging to the horizon, though the view's disrupted by women passing by the windows of Michael’s Candy Shop in giggling groups. A breeze teases the broken front door open and shut, earning a half-hearted frown from the young man sweeping the floors inside. It’s morning in Chicago, yes, but more importantly, it’s winter and the biting cold refuses to let Patrick forget this.

The slowly rising sun outside the large glass windows of the store taunts Patrick with the idea that outside may be warmer than it is in here, a one-room store tucked between brighter and more colorful shops. Patrick guesses the lack of fresh paint on the store door is what keeps the passersby from paying too much attention but the smiles, too large and excited for such an early hour, promise something else; the fact that so many people are out and about in time to see the sun peek over the city buildings in the distance makes all the difference in Patrick’s personal guessing game.

He watches with a curious eye as the women gather around the bus stop on the other side of the street, scoffing at their extravagant clothing and the warm coats they all seem to be bundled in. His own thin jacket feels ragged in comparison, though he only bought it the week before. Admittedly, it was from a second-hand store but Mikey, his boss and only friend, can’t afford to pay him more for the work he does and, besides, the spare room he allows Patrick to stay in above the shop is more than enough.

As another gust of wind slips through the creaking door, Patrick shudders and pauses his work to lean against the broom, considering the crowd in a new light. More than a nuisance at this point, they’re an opportunity. With each added person to the collection— boys and girls and men and women sticking together like magnets in a bag— Patrick’s irritation slips into intrigue. Crowds are good, he remembers as he puts the broom aside and rubs his numb hands together. Crowds mean distractions and easy persuasions; crowds mean Patrick doesn’t have to work too hard today.

His hips and knees ache as he makes his way outside, the result of curling in so tightly on himself as he slept. No one seems to notice his stiff movements, though, as he crosses the street with a casual grin he hasn’t felt in years. It’s a grin which falters when boys his age— twenty-somethings with golden grins and bright eyes— run past without fear of agitating sore muscles or aching bones. He doesn’t know whether to envy or curse them so he bites his tongue instead, making it to the bus stop in time to see a careless woman place her purse on the ground beside her.

Patrick fights to keep his grin in place as he slips in with the crowd, inching towards the bag even as guilt gnaws relentlessly at his chest. He glances around, nerves alight with the constant threat of being caught. The air chills with memories of cold holding cells and rough hands on his arms but he's gotten better at this game. He’s easier to ignore now, small and shy with faded clothes and a placating smile, and he reaches into his pocket with a forced steadiness he barely feels. Even when his lucky penny’s pressed safely against his palm, even when the crowd grows until he can’t see the edges anymore, he holds his breath and refuses to properly breathe.

As simple as ever, the coin drops to the ground and Patrick follows with a casual bend. No one’s watching as he reaches for the penny with one hand, his arm hiding the other from view as it slips into the woman’s purse. He bites the inside of his cheek as he searches, eyes darting across the crowd until, finally, the familiar feeling of a wallet brushes his fingertips.

It’s at this exact moment the bus appears, the doors open, and the crowd goes into an uproar as someone steps out.

“Oh! Oh! Gabe! Over here! Please, Gabe, one picture!”

“Mr. Beckett, will you sign something for a few of your fans?”

“Gabe!”

“Gabe!”

“Gabe!”

For a moment, a stilled second between two breaths, Patrick glances up at the name. A familiar name, a name he’s been waiting five years to hear again.

It's a name that means nothing in the mouths of these strangers.

The crowd throws itself forward all at once, an elbow catching Patrick in the cheek as he attempts to stand and run from all the pushing. He doesn’t care for the wallet as it slips from his fingers, crying out instead as he loses his balance and falls to the side with wide-eyes. The crowd only grows more predatory, a stampede with feet landing on his hands and catching him in the side as he tries again to stand. The shouts for attention become squeals of delight and someone’s knee hits his head. For a moment, Patrick sees stars.

He loses track of time, loses track of his own breaths, as giving up and giving in become the most viable options. The crowd isn’t likely to kill him if he stays in one spot, an inane thought experience has proven false. Still, maybe he can curl up on his side, knees to chest, and protect his face and organs. His back and arms may take a brutal beating but it’s not like it would be the first time and, at least, it’d be on his own terms for once.

But it’s hard to think as screams block out all rationality; it’s hard to focus on the present when the pain of being stuck on the ground only reminds Patrick of the past. He shuts his eyes, the crowd moving like a wave that’s trapped him beneath the water. He begs himself to breathe but it does no good when his air is stolen by the fear of another bruise or cut. Gasping for oxygen that doesn’t seem to exist, exhaling silent screams that are never heard— were never heard, can’t be heard by anyone but himself. He’s caught in a cycle he thought he escaped. 

No, he did escape, he thinks, even though the burning of boots on his skin is too familiar. He’s fine, he tells himself, he has to be. The crowd will leave soon enough and he can go back to the shop and he’ll be fine. He’s not having any sort of panic over this, goddamnit, he’s fine, he’s always fine and—

“Hey, woah, are you okay? Guys, chill out! You’re hurting him!”

Familiar. Too familiar in every way.

Patrick opens his eyes at the voice cutting over the crowd, a pleasant change from the ice of winter and sting of strangers. Vision comes back to him, pieces at a time: a man’s briefcase splayed out on the ground, a woman’s pair of shiny black shoes, and everyone’s eyes on him.

Or, perhaps, they’re not looking at him. Instead, they’re staring at Gabe Beckett’s hand, extended out with all his focus on Patrick. Light frames his dark being, sunlight catching on the fabric of his suit and dancing in the locks of his hair. Patrick can't see his face clearly from this angle but it's him. He knows it's Gabe.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he says. “I’m Gabe.”

As if he needs an introduction. Everyone here knows who Gabe is.

But they don’t know him the way Patrick does.

“Gabriel,” Patrick breathes, the name lost in the wind before the other man can hear it.

Rumors of the great Gabe Beckett have spiraled through Patrick’s ears before, the name of the handsome singer who rose to fame years ago, a time when Patrick was still curled up on the streets with no roof or job. He’d heard his songs playing in Mikey’s shop and he’d listened to customers speak of tours and upcoming shows. He hadn’t heard, though, that this Gabe has the same light in his grin as the Gabriel Patrick knew back before he realized how cruel the world could be. He hadn’t heard that they shared the same voice or eyes.

No one told him he could find the man he’d lost within this celebrity.

Gabe’s— Gabriel’s? — lips twist in that famous way of his, a chuckle warming the air with its informality. “You look hurt. Let me help you back up.”

Patrick's frozen, staring at Gabe’s outstretched hand before placing his own inside it. He can’t help but notice the differences between them, the way he always did when they were younger and still figuring themselves out. Gabe’s large and soft and steady in all the places Patrick’s small and calloused and shaking. Still, Gabe helps him to his feet, smiling more genuinely than Patrick has ever seen.

If this were any other instance— if they were any other person— Patrick would pull his hand back, force a smile, and claim he’s alright. But Gabe was a friend when Patrick had none and Patrick knows that’s a debt he’s still meant to repay.

He knows he should say something witty or clever but words are barely forming in his mind, let alone his mouth. Is he to ask where Gabe’s been all these years? Does he question why he calls himself Beckett?

Is he allowed to wonder if Gabe ever thought of him while they were apart?

Gabe strokes gently alongside Patrick’s face and the entire crowd seems to hold its breath. Wrath and jealousy flicker through the air like lightning prepared to strike, each dark emotion sizzling against Patrick’s skin like the weight of their bodies mere moments before.

“You’re bleeding,” Gabe says, pulling his hand back with a frown that’s almost confused. Patrick steps forward, testing to see how close Gabe will let him be.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words trembling. He should leave before Gabe realizes who he is, before the crowd can gnaw on it like another piece of gossip tossed out for their benefit. Mikey will be back at the shop in another hour or so and Patrick doesn’t have time to waste on nostalgia.

But Gabe is standing before him and it’s impossible to think of anything other than the time they used to share.

“Will you help me back to the shop over there?” Patrick asks, pointing with a shaking hand. He pauses, licks his lips, and then meets Gabe’s eyes with a deliberate half smirk. “Gabriel?”

Gabe draws back and his eyebrows knit together. For a horrible second, Patrick’s terrified he has it all wrong. This isn’t Gabriel Saporta, the first and only boy to teach Patrick how love is supposed to feel. He’s made a fool of himself, he’s sure, and the nation’s favorite star won't be kind enough to let him forget it.

But, deeper than even those fears run, Patrick knows no one else wears confidence so well, the same way he knows the years have obscured the memories Gabe may have of him. That must be why Gabe's taking so long in easing Patrick's doubts. Thinner than he was six years ago and wearing clothes from a thrift shop, Patrick knows Gabe’s confused but he still knows it’s Gabe. No one else speaks in such a soothing tone and no one, no one but Gabriel Saporta, would look at Patrick the way he is now-- whether or not he knows who he's looking at.

Besides, tricking Gabe is part of the fun. If anything, it's an inside joke.

“Of course,” Gabe says, clearing away Patrick’s concerns. He steps back and looks to the side, addressing another man standing nearby. “Please let William know I’ll be late to our meeting. I’ll see him tonight but, for now, something’s come up. It’s no one’s fault but my own, tell him that.”

Gabe’s voice stirs comfortably in Patrick’s chest like fond memories dragged free from their hiding places. He barely hears the hisses of scandal from the crowd as Gabe leads him away from the sidewalk and across the street; he hardly cares about how he lost his lucky penny on the cement of a bus stop sidewalk.

Patrick can’t find it in himself to worry about anything. Not when he still has the promises Gabriel Saporta made to him hiding in the corner of their smiles.

“How are you feeling?” Gabe asks. Before Patrick can respond, he brushes his knuckles across the scrape on Patrick’s cheek again. “How’s this feel?”

Gabe’s hand against his skin after five years without? Patrick nearly laughs at the absurdity of the question. After all, Gabe should know that it feels—

<><><> <><><> <><><>

 

 

_Wrong as it may be, the time between fall and winter has always been the most interesting time for Patrick to ponder. There’s no climactic change, like the slip from winter to summer, and it’s not a gradual shift, either, like summer falling into autumn. It’s a time marked by signs that are easy to forget, a time that passes by in a handful of days until, at last, a blizzard forces one to realize anything has been changing at all._

_At eighteen years old, a time before Saportas but not before loneliness and bruises, Patrick convinces himself that he can be as powerful as the time between these seasons. He’s eighteen, nearly a man and barely a boy— or so he sees it. Signs have been appearing that he doesn’t fit into the family structure anymore, a family whose banking business looks more like an empire the further one stands from it. Patrick Stumph, son of a wealthy CEO and a modern heir to a promised fortune, doesn’t see himself as fall or winter._

_The way leaves drop from trees, he feels himself slipping further from his father’s tightening hold on his future— dictations of colleges to attend and plans Patrick never made for himself._

_The way the wind blows colder and the way the sky darkens earlier than usual, Patrick’s responses with his parents are nothing more but the cool remarks he’s practiced all his life; his daydreams grow more dismal by the minute._

_He’s the place between winter and fall— between a good son and a man of his own making._

_And Gabriel Saporta appears just in time to be his blizzard._

_Gabriel’s twenty-two and just like Patrick when they meet— the wistful son of a wealthy banker hoping to make a deal. Patrick first meets him, briefly, at a business meeting his father dragged him to._

_Then, again, he meets him at the Saporta's holiday party the following month. A fitting time, really, as the snow begins to settle outside the lavish home, decorated with the golds and greens of Christmastime._

_Patrick’s parents leave him in the foyer, a new coat still hanging loosely from his shoulders. He thinks of leaving or hiding or playing the part they wrote for him the day he was born._

_But, like a godsend— like a miracle, like a blizzard welcoming the change into winter— Gabriel appears. Smiling and laughing, warmer than any snowfall Patrick has ever seen._

_“I’m Gabriel,” he says. “But I’ll let you call me Gabe.”_

_“I’m Patrick." Patrick pulls the rest of his jacket off, dusting snow away from his hair. “If you can think of a nickname, I’ll let you call me that.”_

_And Gabriel— Gabe— smiles in a way Patrick was never meant to resist. He sees the fall coming, long before Gabe does, and he plunges into the cold with a grin of his own._

_Gabe steps closer and the air chills with him._

_“Patrick,” he says, the lilt of accent twisting the sounds in a manner Patrick can’t quite recognize. “Trick. A little Trickster, then. Truco.”_

_“That’s a- I think I like that,” Patrick says. “I’ll let you call me that.”_

_They lose track of time as the evening goes on, seconds melting like snowflakes as they press together on a couch in Gabe’s basement. The younger attendees of the party overflow into the steps and scatter thoughtlessly around the lower level but no one comes close enough to hear the secrets shared between them. Anecdotes blend into confessions until Gabe’s more than a mere acquaintance in a matter of moments._

_“My parents want me to grow into the business or whatever but, the older I get, the more restrictions I seem to find in their lifestyle,” Patrick says beneath dimming fairy lights and amidst mint-scented candy._

_Gabe sucks on his candy-cane thoughtfully, shadows crossing his face as easily as a breeze. “I get that. It sounds like your parents hate what’s different. The thing is, my parents straight up refuse to be different. Yours hate what they can’t control; my parents let themselves be controlled.” Another pause, another silence filled by strangers and bystanders. “But you’re not like your parents, I can tell. You’re fascinating, Truco. You’re something else, I tell you. You’re… You’re real and that’s pretty damn hard to find in places like this.”_

_Real. Patrick finds something poetry in Gabe's words, paints paradox into the way he's called Trick and real in the same breath._

_The rest of the night is a mere whisper against what Patrick feels in the moment Gabe calls him real, the second when Gabe’s eyes linger for just a breath too long. Universes and promises appear before him in those burning brown eyes and all he can do is smile._

_It’s no surprise to either boy when David and Patricia return with Gabe’s parents beside them, an announcement for an upcoming business trip on their lips._

_“The Saportas were kind enough to invite us on a tour of their remote offices next month. We think a partnership can be beneficial for both our banks,” David says, arms crossed. “You’ll stay with Gabriel for a time, alright? Get to know each other. Who knows, maybe you’ll be business partners someday.”_

_Gabe laughs, the sound lighter than the sparkling lights decorating the home. “Sounds more like an arranged marriage, Mr. Stumph, but I promise to take good care of Truc— Patrick.”_

_David turns his shrewd gaze onto Patrick, eyes sinking into his son in a way that has Patrick pressing further back into the couch as if it will put distance between himself and Gabe’s words. “He’s just joking about that, dad, don’t worry. Gabe and I will be fine together”_

_It’s not a funny statement and there’s no humor on Patrick’s face. Still, Gabe ends the night with a raucous bout of laughter, an infectious sound that has a similar giggle escaping Patrick’s lips. In the minutes and hours since meeting Gabe, it’s something he’s found himself doing more often._

_Maybe it has something to do with the sparkle in Gabe’s eyes or the way he calls him Trick with a clever-sounding roll of his tongue._

_Maybe, though, it has everything to do with how every bit of him is…_

<><><> <><><> <><><>

—perfect.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truco, if the few years of Spanish I took are reliable at all (mehh), should mean Trick. If it doesn't, yell at me but keep in mind that I spent most of my Spanish classes staring at the Russian alphabet because I somehow convinced myself that would be cooler. You know what... with that knowledge, you should feel free to just yell at me in general. 
> 
> Or, if you don't have anything to yell about, please comment anyway! You have no idea how much I love each comment I see :)
> 
> Finally, hum-my-name is my tumblr. Feel free to come talk with me over there :)
> 
> Love you! See you next chapter!


	3. I Think I Know Who You Are In My Imagination...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...But not too sure about reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: I Simply Can't Resist My Imagination. 
> 
> I would suggest keeping that phrase in mind for nearly every Gabe/Patrick interaction in this story. Which, um, might happen more than us pure Peterick shippers would probably like.
> 
> Honestly, fair warning, this fic is going to be a long one and there's a reason slow burn is tagged. I apologize so much in advance, I don't ever think anything out. Why, god, why didn't anybody stop me, this entire venture is a mistake.
> 
> Anyway, all lamentations aside, I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think!

As always, Patrick’s rambling nervously with a shy smile coating each of his words before they’ve even fully arrived at the shop. 

“Don’t mind the mess, I was, um, in the middle of cleaning when I saw the crowd. But, I mean, lucky I did, right? I don’t know how else I would have ever put all the pieces together if I had waited here. I was just actually going to- I mean, I was just checking out the crowd for… Well, I guess it doesn’t matter but, I mean—” He cuts off with a twisted frown as he opens the door for Gabe, cringing at the amount of chill rushing in with them. “Anyway, thanks again for coming with me here. I… There’s a lot to talk about, I guess.”

“Don't worry about it,” Gabe says with a simple wave of his hand, brushing away both the cold and Patrick’s words. “You know, I suppose you were in quite a bit of luck, seeing the crowd like that. I haven’t stepped foot in Chicago in ages and had my friend— William, I’m sure you know— do all the arrangements for me. If I had known the bus dropped off at such a random spot… Anyway, it’s all no problem and I'm glad we had the chance to meet.”

Patrick hesitates, watching Gabe roam the small store as if he already owns a piece of it. He scans over the sweets with a raised eyebrow and soft smirk, fingers trailing across each surface but never for long. “Right. About meeting… It has been a while but I was hoping you would rem—”

“Your head is bleeding again,” Gabe cuts him off, raising his other eyebrow as his fingers lift to poke gently against his own temple. “Righ here. It doesn’t look too bad but… Here, take this.” With an exaggerated flourish, he frees a tissue from his pocket, giving it a few shakes before passing it to Patrick like a handkerchief traded as a favor. Patrick takes it with nothing more than a small frown. He’s certain the wound is inconsequential— his mother had first trained to be a nurse, after all, before she was swept up by his father’s business charms— but it is nice to see Gabe so eager to help.

As he wipes at the small bits of blood dotting his head, he wonders how long they’ll play the game of strangers, how awkward things can grow before he reveals his identity to the man who swore to save him from everything. His stomach twists painfully at the thought and he tosses the tissue away. Gabe’s eyes remain on him; Patrick feels them as plainly as a physical touch.

When Gabe steps closer, Patrick’s heart reenacts every cliche.

“Thanks, again,” he says softly. Though his words are slow, they hurry from his mind to his lips with a speed he can’t screen or filter away. “I... I was worried I was wrong about you, you know. But I guess that was just me being silly as always.”

Gabe pulls back; Patrick pretends he isn't hurt.

“Don’t think too much of it,” Gabe says, glancing past Patrick’s shoulder and towards the store window. Patrick wonders if the crowd’s dispersed by now or if they’ve followed Gabe here. Is that why Gabe's taking so long to understand? Or does he even wish to understand at all? “I couldn’t very well deny you some care, could I? The number of reporters there… God, my reputation would have suffered quite the blow.”

Patrick takes a step towards Gabe, his eyebrows furrowing together, but stops when Gabe’s eyes land back on him. He splutters for something to say, reaches for the words meant to reveal himself. The more Gabe stares with that unknowing look, though, the easier such things slip through his fingers.

“You mean,” he says, biting down on his tongue to keep from embarrassing himself, “you had no other reason behind this than to seem nice? Nothing… Nothing else about our encounter seemed important? You would have done this for anybody?”

Breaths become difficult as Patrick’s chest heaves with a humiliated anger. Sure, he knew Gabe wouldn’t recognize him fully— six years can change too much of the wrong things— but he’d hoped… He’d been certain there must have been something calling to Gabe. A memory or a deja vu, perhaps.

Maybe, Patrick had expected, he’d felt the same spark from six years ago that Patrick’s kept kindled in his heart all this time.

As he grasps for more words— to justify his temper or to tame it, he's not yet sure— Gabe comes closer and places a hand on his shoulder. It’d be familiar if not for the way his eyes have narrowed. “I would advise you not to assume a man’s character before meeting him. You could be wrong or, worse, you could be right. I’m not quite certain I’d like to know what your thoughts were before meeting me but if this reaction is anything to by you were imagining something a bit more personal. I’m sorry, really, but that’s just not who I am.”

But it is, Patrick thinks with a gaping mouth. He’s always been exactly who Patrick wants him to be-- even if he wasn't around to fulfill that fantasy.

Gabe appears convinced by his own words and it causes Patrick’s heart to stop altogether. No time for tricks or games or drawing this out longer than need be. Once Gabe knows who he is he’ll be kinder. He’ll be the way he was; he’ll be Patrick’s once more.

“Gabe… Gabriel, I need to… You see… I’m— Well, there’s no right way to say it but I’m… I’m P--”

At the last second, Patrick’s words turn traitor and seem more likely to choke or suffocate him before ever leaving his lips. His throat closes up around them and he’s left stuttering lines that make no sense.

“And here I thought you might be eloquent. Don’t strain yourself, please.,” Gabe jokes, leaning against the wall. “Here's what I'm thinking: I’ll stay for a bit before I go, to be sure you’re alright. I’ll give you some celebrity company and, if anyone asks, you can say that Gabe Beckett is a good guy. Seems like a fair trade, no?”

“No.” Patrick doesn't catch his mistake until it's pressed against the cool air surrounding them, bright as the sun gleaming against the snow. He shakes his head furiously, hating the heat rushing to his face. “Sorry, I suppose the cold must have gotten to me.”

“Well, yes, it does appear as if it will snow,” Gabe says, tired. “You may be lucky enough to have me here for an hour or so. Are you a fan?”

The words distort like smoke in the cold air, burning hot on Patrick’s skin when they hit him. Is he a fan of the man he loves? Loved? Is he truly lucky to have him here?

Suddenly, Patrick’s ideas of a grand reveal melt away and leave nothing but searing rage in its place. Gabe wants to play the celebrity, the star meeting a fanboy he saved curled up on the street? Fine, but only if Patrick gets to play the part of the lying thief Gabe had unwittingly found.

He’d always been called a trick by him, after all.

“I suppose you could say that,” Patrick says, leaning against the counter across from Gabe and crossing his arms. Already, he can feel the bruises forming along his sides and shoulders, teasing him with the caress of wounds he thought he left behind when he left home. He wonders if Gabe will recognize such violent shades decorating porcelain skin or if he’ll have any poetic words about how bad the sight of it makes him feel. He wonders if Gabe will care as much now as he did then.

But only Gabe nods with a disinterested quirk of his lips— more habit than true emotion, it appears.

Patrick continues, mimicking Gabe’s expression with a meaner version of his own. “So what brings someone as important as you to Chicago?”

“Label meetings. Business stuff,” Gabe admits, eyes flicking towards the window once more. “Truth be told, I’ve always hated that Decaydance is situated out here. This place used to be home. Now, I can barely stand it.”

“I take it you aren’t visiting family, then,” Patrick says with a sigh. He doesn’t mean to sound as if he already knows the answer but his tongue beats him to the words before his mind does. Still, Gabe shrugs and leans back.

“Of course not,” he says, looking back at Patrick. “I’d be a fool to go back to them. Leaving that part of my life was the best thing I ever did.”

And Patrick knows that Gabe sees him as a poor boy, someone lucky enough to fall into the arms of a beloved celebrity. He knows he’s not supposed to say the things he wants to say, not unless he wants to give himself up as Patrick Stumph. The desire, though, courses through his veins with a toxic sting and he closes his hands into tight fists to fight off the urge.

It’s easier to soothe his aching heart when this is treated as a game. It’s simpler to pretend it’s harmless when he sees it as a test of Gabe’s memory.

“What if they miss you?” He asks, fingernails digging into his palms at Gabe’s nonchalant expression.

“Then they shouldn’t have driven me away.”

“What if…” The next words hurt and burn and bite as Patrick thinks of how best to phrase them, how to make Gabe say his name first. “Don’t you have friends who might wish to see you? Or someone… someone special you may have left behind?”

Gabe’s eyes snap up and meet Patrick’s. Silence falls between them, thick as the fog that likes to cover the Chicago sky.

Patrick takes the time to catch his breath, unaware till now of how harshly he'd been gasping for air and validation. He knows the years have changed him, knows Gabe only knew him when Patrick’s mother was cutting his hair in that awful side-burned style, the strands gleaming from consistent washes and high-class salon visits. He knows Gabe would sooner recognize a better-fed frame more than the near sickly one Patrick wears now. He knows if Gabe were expecting to see him again, he'd be expecting to see someone in a better state than this.

Can’t Patrick pretend, though, that Gabe meant it when he said the color of his eyes was too unique to ignore? Can’t he trick himself into believing that if Gabe can look so different— taller, stronger, clean-shaved and adorned in colors his family never let him wear— but still be so familiar, Patrick can do the same?

As he tries to catch Gabe's eyes once more, he finds the answers to these questions terribly painful.

“There were one or… or two or, I don’t know, some people I played around with, I suppose,” Gabe says, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I can’t think of one worth going back for. I crawled my way out from under my parents’ tyranny and that’s… It’s not something meant for everyone. It takes bravery and will and… And a reason. Not everyone has a reason to run away.”

Patrick’s lungs ache from how long he’s been holding his breath, from how long he’s been waiting for this moment.

Gabe can’t possibly mean what he’s saying. He knew Patrick had every reason to leave— more than Gabe ever could— and he had to know he himself was Patrick’s will. Didn’t Gabe expect for Patrick to follow? Wasn't that why he whispered such temptations into his ear? Couldn’t he predict what would have happened when the one person who claimed to love Patrick left?

He lets out a heavy breath, begging for Gabe to confirm or deny that Patrick did everything he was supposed to do. He waits for Gabe to follow through and make everything better like always said he would. He seems to wait for forever.

And his only reward is that sight of Gabe's eyes opening and looking away.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ A week after Patrick turns nineteen, four months after their first meeting, Gabe disappears.  _

_ Gabe— Patrick’s Gabe, his favorite secret, his greatest infatuation— disappears without a word, leaving him to dissect every sentence they've exchanged; Gabe’s speeches on freedom, spoken while drunk or high behind his parents’ backs, suddenly make more sense than they ever did before. _

_ But the speeches, the blazing words demanding his own life, aren’t the rumors people spread. Patrick's parents speak in hushed tones of imagined scandals and misplaced blame— society, friends, Gabe himself. They turn a discerning eye on Patrick and remind him that family must always come first. _

_ “It’s a shame,” his father says one night at dinner, “that he had to go for no reason. Did he ever suggest anything like that to you? Give you an explanation?” _

_ “He said his parents were forcing him to take a position in the company,” Patrick says— honest though his shaking words would have any listener believing otherwise. “He was never interested in their decisions for him or their lack of enthusiasm for his own plans.” _

_ Dangerous words and, yet, not the most dangerous piece. In the months they were together— Patrick’s description, though Gabe whispered it late sometimes at night— Patrick learned how much Gabe hated his family and their business. He learned Gabe liked to write poems and sing along with mindless songs on the radio. He was more likely to be found with a battered journal and inked up hands rather than spreadsheets and eyes sore from staring at a screen. _

_ He learned Gabe had a vision for his life and nothing was going to get in the way of it. Not his family, not his friends, and not-- it seems-- his lovers. _

_ “Are you surprised he left, then?” His mother asks. She sounds more concerned than his father does or, maybe, she’s merely being sarcastic. “If you already knew so much, was it a shock?” _

_ It appears like a trap and Patrick's sole defense is to shrug. “I don’t know.” _

_ He does know, though, and the answer he bites back brings bright heat to his cheeks. _

_ Gabe never made it a secret to Patrick that he wanted to leave; the problem was that he always made it sound like he was willing to take Patrick with him. _

_ Between college courses of his parents’ choosing— somewhere still within driving distance of home, somewhere that never required him to leave the house his parents have kept him in all his life— Patrick ponders Gabe’s decision. Past the hurt that came with his departure, Patrick feels nothing more than wonder. Is it really so simple to leave one’s family and predestined life behind? Are dreams easier to chase than they appear? Every night, Patrick prays for Gabe to return with the answers and a plan for Patrick in his hands; every day, he pretends he has a plan of his own. _

_ Nights and days become weeks and months, though, and Patrick’s soon faced with the change of seasons once more. Summer into fall, a time with the same warm gaze of the boy he lost. _

_ Perhaps he shouldn’t lament so furiously; perhaps he shouldn’t feel so broken-hearted. But he’s certain Gabe knew what he was doing when he left Patrick— his last memory being that of sunlight rising gently over Gabe’s bare skin in between the sheets of Gabe’s apartment, a place his parents had bought to keep him close. He whispered things that night, promises to call Patrick on his birthday the next week. His parents were taking him to visit an office in California, he explained. He couldn’t be here for Patrick’s birthday but, he said as he traced a heart onto Patrick’s wrist, he begged for Patrick to wait for him to return— he said he would bring the best present he could find. _

_ “No playing around without me, Truco,” he said, pressing a kiss to the invisible heart imprinted on Patrick’s skin and veins. “I’ll be back before you know it. Promise you’ll have patience?” _

_ “Yes,” Patrick swore. “Of course.” _

_ So Gabe left with his parents, a scene Patrick imagines having secretive smiles and smug eyes. _

_ When the Saportas returned, Gabe was no longer at their side. _

_ When the panic at being left behind fades, Patrick holds onto the promise he made. Patience and loyalty— Gabe wouldn’t ask for it if he didn’t have a reason, right? _

_ It’s a promise he keeps though his chest aches each time the Saportas come to visit. It’s an oath he ties next to the heart Gabe left behind, a ribbon to remind him that the best is yet to come. _

_ Winter brings blizzards like Gabe and all he has to do is wait. _

_ But life is rarely so easy. _

_ “The deal went through with our partners in England. A new branch should be up within the next year or so. I want you to help run it.” _

_ Patrick’s father drops the news as they’re preparing for the day— Patrick for college classes he’s barely passing and his father for another day at a job he pretends to love. _

_ It’s said with such an obvious tone, such surety, that Patrick’s mind goes straight for his defenses. _

_ “You’re sending me away?” He pulls on a thin jacket with a subtle shake. “The last thing I want to do is sound ungrateful but I don’t think that’s—” _

_ “Oh, don’t act stupid about it,” his father says. The words are softened with a laugh and a smile Patrick can’t return yet, not when the summer sun from outside the window lands directly on the oversized buckle of his father’s belt. The glare blinds him with darker memories and Patrick watches the light flash with wary eyes. “It’s a great opportunity and I know you’re ready for it.” _

_ Patrick pauses, jacket halfway buttoned, and takes a breath. When Gabe was around, he would tell Patrick what was really going on, how this is merely a ruse for his family to spread their empire out as much as possible. He’d tell Patrick how best to achieve his own happiness in this situation, consequences be damned. _

_ He starts shaking his head slowly— half-hoping to catch his father’s attention and half-hoping for the conversation to stop. It’d be easy to let things end here, to go along with the plan and be grateful that it didn’t close in the way his father usually likes to settle these things. _

_ But his wrist burns with a mark Gabe traced and Patrick knows what Gabe would say. _

_ “I don’t want to go.” _

_ A simple statement, one he tries to ease with a tired smile. _

_ His father’s eyes narrow; his hands twitch at his side. _

_ “Don’t be disrespectful, now.” _

_ Dangerous and dark— the fall promised to come after the high of summer. _

_ “I’m not. I’m… I’m just saying that—” _

_ “You’re telling me no.” _

_ Patrick keeps his eyes on the sky as he speaks, on the clouds that will one day bring him his winter storm. _

_ “... I suppose I am…” _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

Patrick doesn’t keep track of how many seconds pass before a proper response forms in his mind. He looks towards the window, brows drawn together in thought. Gabe’s still talking, waxing poetic about sacrificing family and how not everyone is meant to do it. His lips twist in ways Patrick’s unfamiliar with; his eyes, still looking past Patrick, hold a pride that’s never been seen before.

Outside, snow drifts down towards the street with slow fluffy flakes.

His chest aches with the growing need for Gabe to recognize him, for this all to be forgotten and forgiven. Just as strongly, his humiliation burns with every angry scene he's witnessed since following Gabe's example. 

As Gabe’s speech slows, Patrick turns his eyes back on him.

“It’s a nice story but all I’m getting from it is that you don’t have one single person to go back for,” he says, holding each word like a grenade on his tongue. “And that’s just sad.”

Gabe’s eyes narrow and he shoves fists into his pockets.

“I had plenty of friends but they all knew what I was planning,” Gabe says, defensive. “I guess there was this one kid I knew years ago but last I heard he took over a piece of his parents’ business. Left the country, all rich kid like.” He stops, his own breath cutting him off as he shakes his head. The action has Patrick leaning forward, intrigued by the sudden pause. Gabe shrugs it off easily, though his eyes are harder when they look back up. “I don’t have any reason to be telling you my life story. What if I asked you how you ended up in such a poor spot? What would you say to that?”

Patrick’s lips curve into a derisive smile, bitter but still so sweet when Gabe raises an eyebrow at it. He’s done his part and fulfilled his promise; he waited and the prize wasn’t as great as he’d been told.

“I suppose I’d say it was because I didn’t actually leave the country.”

Silence, loud enough the wind brushing against the window makes itself known. It’s broken only when Gabe gasps, eyes widening with each following breath he takes.

“You’re not… You’re not Patrick.” The words strangle him as they appear. “It must have been… God, I don’t know. Six years? Five? You expect me to believe... It doesn’t matter, I would have known. I'd know if you were Patrick.”

So he does remember his name.

“Are you certain about that?”

But he doesn’t remember the way he used to call him ‘Truco.’

Gabe’s dropped jaw and panicked eyes are satisfying images, filling an indignant piece of Patrick’s heart he’d been trying to ignore. Words stumble together as Gabe tries to speak, not one statement coherent. Finally, when his tongue has tripped enough times, he pushes away from the wall with a beaming grin. His words become a laugh of disbelief and he’s standing directly before Patrick in a matter of moments.

“Oh my god, Patrick! I had no idea, I swear, I… I didn’t think you’d be able to go, with your dad and all. Did you have help? I didn’t get the chance to leave until William—” And Gabe cuts off, smile faltering as he steps back. When he speaks again, his words are stiff, if a bit proud. “You broke out. I’m glad.”

“Yeah.” Patrick doesn’t know where to go now that Gabe knows the truth, now that his eyes are slowly filling with the look Patrick’s been missing for too long. He’d only known Gabe for a matter of months but it was enough for him to become an idol, a hero. The years had only given the sentiment more power, no new lover matching up to the standards he somehow remembered Gabe setting. Courageous and lovely and perfect.

Had he ever been any of those things or had Patrick merely wished to remember him as such? With Gabe’s hesitant smile and flickering eyes, he’s not so sure.

“I thought it’d be easy,” Patrick blurts out, omitting the bruises and admissions that went into his horrific escape. “You made it seem easy and I’ve always wanted to be like you. I… I’ve always looked up to you and I thought I’d be able to find you. I tried so hard to find you the first year after I was… after I left. It was the same year you disappeared, you know. I’ve been missing you for five years.” It sounds more pathetic when the words are spoken out loud, when they’re not whispered to himself at midnight— a time when the most absurd things seem romantic and romance doesn’t seem impossible.

A time when anything can happen; a time where even he and Gabe may happen.

“Well, that's... that's certainly something to hear,” Gabe says, fidgeting with a self-conscious smile on his face. The celebrity facade strips away before Patrick’s eyes, though he’s still caught on how easily Gabe had played the part up till now. “Here I am, then.”

“Yes.” Patrick takes in the nice suit, the watch on his hand, the styled wave of his hair. He swallows, looking into Gabe’s eyes and tries not to wonder if the pounding in his chest is him falling back in or out of love. “You know, I can’t tell if you’ve changed or stayed the same. And I don't know which would be worse.”

“Now, Patrick, I—”

“You should go,” Patrick says quickly, looking down with his lip between his teeth. It’s the last thing he expected himself to have to say, a statement fuelled by the embarrassment of being just a kid Gabe used to know. “Mikey… The owner, he’ll be here soon enough and I need to finish sweeping.”

Humiliation and shame sting him viciously when Gabe doesn’t fight back, though he does keep from moving towards the door. His hands dance through the air as if grasping for words and they grow more violent as the feelings he wishes to speak clearly evade him. Patrick turns his head from a particularly quick swing of Gabe’s hands and it’s only then that Gabe pauses entirely, still as settled snow.

Does he remember how Patrick’s father is? And is the hurt expression on his face real or faked?

“I wanted to come back for you,” Gabe says, almost sounding desperate or genuine. “But I couldn’t turn my back on the life I’d fought for. This man helped— William— and he had terms I needed to follow in order to get to where I am now. But that doesn’t mean I forgot you. It doesn’t mean I stopped thinking or caring about you.” Patrick scoffs and Gabe holds his hands up, wincing when Patrick steps further away. “I know, I know, I didn’t recognize you but it’s been years! You can’t possibly blame me. You can’t… Patrick, do you honestly believe I would ever mean to hurt you? After all the times I comforted and protected you?”

Patrick shuts his eyes. If he looks at Gabe for a second longer he may be tricked into believing him— and Gabe was never meant to be the trickster between them.

“My father didn’t like it when I left,” he says without a thought. ”He reacted about as well as you’d expect, Gabe. I gave up a lot and the years haven’t been kind. Still, I knew it was you from the moment I looked into your eyes.” He takes a shaking breath, eyes opening and landing on the inside of his wrist. “You couldn’t do the same for me. Forgive me for being a bit hurt.”

“Patrick…” Guilt burdens the word and Patrick’s tempted to respond, to scream that Gabe’s still not calling him the name he granted him so long ago. He wants to answer with cruel remarks, to detail each blow and strike he's received.

He knows, though, if he does, he’ll only end up in tears and Gabe will have him in his arms, promising all the care and comfort he should had these past five years.

But would that be so bad?

He swallows, finally looking up and meeting Gabe’s eyes. “I thought you were supposed to call me something else.”

Gabe’s eyebrows quirk up— Smug? Confused?— and his lips part. “I don’t—”

“This is where you’re hiding?”

The door to the shop slams open, cold rushing in with a burst of reality beside it. Patrick’s thoughts rip free from the world that had been settling around him, a world where Gabe’s arrived just in time to sweep him into a happily ever after. He blinks and stares over at the two men now blocking the view of the snow outside the window.

“We’re not open,” Patrick says, peeling off from the counter and moving to shoo them away. The two men couldn’t be more different from each other— one tall and light while the other barely reaches the other's shoulder and hides behind a mess of dark hair— though they both wear exasperated expressions on their faces. The one who’d spoken— the taller man with light brown hair brushing against slender shoulders— raises an eyebrow at Patrick before moving past with a simple wave of his hand.

“We’ll barely be a moment,” he says, almost sounding bored. “Gabe, what on earth are you doing? We had plans for lunch or have you forgotten?”

“William,” Gabe says through clenched teeth. “I was merely… I got caught up in something.”

William’s eyes narrow, scanning the small store and barely glancing over Patrick. “Really? In here?”

“Yes.”

The two carry on their conversation in a hushed urgency, leaning towards each other with furious gestures and curious tones. Something about their exchange feels oddly intimate, with their faces so close and dozens of expressions passing between them with each word— expressions which say more than their voices do.

Patrick forces himself to look away, shoved to the outside even while standing so close. He looks over familiar cases of candy yet to be stocked and the dust meant to have been cleared away by now. Everything fades into the consistency he’s made for his life, the act he’s been playing for years. He used to tell himself it was a temporary decision, a necessary lull in his journey towards the greatness Gabe had found for himself. Now, though, with Gabe in his world the mirage of it feels too real.

“Fine,” Gabe snaps, drawing Patrick from his depressing thoughts. “I’ll leave with you both, alright? Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” William’s voice twists into a smug sort of satisfaction and, as his cool brown eyes of victory turn and land on Patrick as if there was something to be won, Patrick decides in that very moment to hate him. He faces away, jaw tight as William continues with a joke he’d rather not hear— even if it has Gabe laughing in that old familiar way.

This time, Patrick’s eyes don’t find the place he’s made his home and life for the past few years. They pass over unexciting familiarities with a displeased sigh, taking their time on the fading cream-shaded paint of the walls, and land on something new for once.

Half-hidden in the shadows of the still falling snow but more captivating than the scene in the window behind him, Patrick’s eyes rest on the man still waiting silently by the door. He’s more handsome at the second glance, black hair falling across his forehead with the gentlest of brushes. He’s bundled up for the cold in an oversized hoodie and a tight t-shirt underneath, all black to match the tight jeans clinging to his legs. The man’s not much taller than Patrick but he holds himself in a manner that would have one believing he’s larger than life, a tired smile kept in the corners of his lips as his eyes— the most curious shade of brown that’s neither light or dark, neither another mirage and yet not quite sure to be real— watch the scene play out with rapt attention.

When those eyes turn towards Patrick, when his smile twitches into a playful grin, Patrick knows better than to look away.

“What have you been doing here, Gabe?” He calls out, the smile held in his words as well though his eyes never leave Patrick. “Nothing to tarnish your reputation, I hope.”

“That’s a good question,” William cuts in before Gabe has a chance to respond. “Who is this?”

At last, Patrick turns from the stranger’s heated stare, finding Gabe’s eyes without hesitation. Though William’s words are mocking and his tone is more than cruel, he’s asked the one question Patrick’s been trying to find the answer to. Who is he to Gabe? Who is he, at all?

“This is—” Gabe takes a breath and, for the first time since Patrick’s known him, he looks truly afraid. His brows come together and his eyes dart between the three in the room, his tongue running across his lip as he finally lets his gaze remain on Patrick. Patrick stares back, awaiting the answer as if it will decide the rest of his life. Gabe’s eyes already hold his words within them, confessions and promises and— Patrick finds with a sudden stopping of his heart— apologies.

All semblance of honesty drains from Gabe’s eyes and Patrick’s left looking into empty apologies.

“I’m sorry,” Gabe says and Patrick has no idea who he’s speaking to as he turns his head away. “I got caught up after the crowd nearly trampled him. He’s… He’s no one I know, I’m sorry.”

Yes, Patrick supposes, he’s so sorry. Sorry for leaving without a word and sorry for beginning something he never meant to see to the end. He’s sorry for coming here and, maybe, he’s sorry for ever knowing Patrick at all.

Patrick’s breaths come too quick and a heat stings behind his eyes, the burning that comes with standing in the snow for too long. It coats his entire body with a layer he can’t shake off, a chill in his very soul. It begins from deep within and fights its way past bones and sinew and skin, trailing across his limbs until the worst of it aches on the invisible heart Gabe traced out all those years ago.

Patrick’s sorry, too. He’s sorry for ever believing in something he couldn’t see.

“I need to go,” he says, the words barely a hiss of breath. “I need… I need to go.”

He runs towards the door blindly, not thinking of where he’ll go or what he’ll do; all he knows is that he can’t be here. He turns, stopping short as the stranger before him— the one whose eyes are still on him, whose smile has vanished— refuses to move from his way. Patrick doesn’t avert his gaze, doesn’t shove him to the side though he longs to.

Gabe’s described him in a horrible way, the worst of ways, and yet this man hasn’t looked away. What does he see? The snow outside frames him, a white expanse until he’s nothing more than a silhouette— a vision of possibilities for Patrick to build his new hopes on. He just needs one person to see him as something more and then— and then— he can see it in himself, as well.

And if he sees it, he can make the world see it, too.

The man’s lips twist, a confused frown around the words. “No one?”

Snow slams against the glass and the wind screams. Patrick imagines the same is happening within his mind and heart.

“Doesn’t look like—”

“I need to go.”

He brushes past the man— the stranger, the collection of rusted hopes he represents— and runs into the cold. The door slams shut behind him and he’s surrounded by the blizzard and chill.

As he runs down the sidewalks, he wonders why he ever decided to turn his back on the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always greatly appreciated. This fic is very near and dear to my heart so it would mean the world to know what such lovely readers like yourself are thinking :)


	4. A Little Bit Like Happy Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic slurs!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and this fic! The more I write it, the more worried I am about it, haha. I love it and I cherish it but... It's so different from everything else I've ever written. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

_ It’s not the first time Patrick’s father has been so drunk; alcohol, booze and wine and other liquor, have always appeared in Patrick’s life with an unpleasant frequency. _

_ At this time, Patrick’s still too young to know better, too inexperienced to understand that hazy words and foggy breaths shouldn’t be quotidian as his father makes them seem. _

_ But Patrick’s life has always felt mundane and his father’s strange obsessions with his drinks have never been of much interest to him. _

_ (He doesn’t know it, can’t know it, but, years later, he’ll find others who’ll whisper that such things aren’t right. Years later, but not so many years later, he’ll find worse reasons to be afraid) _

_ Tonight, Patrick’s a child nearing the end of this era, his teen years eluding him with the cleverness of someone who knows age isn’t all that it seems. His mother’s working late at the office, calling clients and overseeing contracts, and the sky went dark long ago. _

_ His father wanders their lavish home the way he always does on nights like these; alcohol sticks to his breath just as strongly as the accusations clinging to his lips. Words about Patrick’s mother that Patrick doesn’t understand, phrases that sound cruel but don’t translate in his youthful ears. Insults and paranoia dancing to the tune of his father’s lust for control. _

_ Though Patrick doesn’t yet understand why his father can sound so cold, he has learned ways to evade his angered path. Patrick plants himself in front of their television, flicking through colorful channels and high-class shows with the unsure attention of a young boy. Images flash before him with dazzling shades, connecting him to the virtual worlds; distracting him from the sound of his father’s stomping upstairs. _

_ Eventually, a tune captures Patrick’s attention— a melody sung in a low, soulful voice. He pauses, dropping the remote and leaning forward as if gluing his eyes to the performer on the screen will allow him to hear each note better than before. He recognizes the program as one of the singing competitions his father has always condemned, claiming the fights for fame and fortune to be nothing more than pathetic and embarrassing to watch. Patrick should probably turn the channel before his father hears but something stills his hand. _

_ The microphone is in the grip of a younger singer now, a boy straight out of high school, shaking as he introduces himself to the judges and audience. He tells a story Patrick doesn’t quite listen to, something about bullying and fears. He laughs and bites his lip and Patrick, who’d been studying the inhumanely soft appearance of his skin, drops his gaze to the flash of tongue and teeth.  _

_ He should turn off the TV but, instead, he moves closer. He should look away but, somehow, he forgets how to blink. _

_ And then the boy begins to sing.  _

_ He’s not the best, pitchy and off-key even to Patrick’s young ears, but there’s something about the emotion in his voice that captures all of his attention. Patrick's breath, his mind, his very heartbeat all rearrange themselves just to fit in time with the song. The boy's voice rises and falls with the drama of an ocean storm, collapsing in on itself with choked back sobs and tear-filled eyes. Patrick watches, a mere boat on this boy’s sea, and wonders if music can drown him as easily as water can. _

_ When the boy reaches his final note, Patrick knows he has to learn the enchantment of melodies and lyrics and song. He has to know how it feels to hold such power in his hands, the ability to make others cry or smile or scream.  _

_ When another boy runs onstage and takes the other in his arms, when boyish lips press against the corner of a boyish mouth in front of a cheering crowd, Patrick knows he has to learn about that, too. The same way music spun his heart in new ways, twirled his veins into a dance and led his arteries into a more beautiful world than before, the sight of these two boys embracing has him opening his eyes into a sunlight that warms but never burns. _

_ His father hates these shows but they’ve already taught him such lovely things, such unknown things. Music and melody and… and whatever it is that stirs in Patrick’s chest when he wonders if he could ever kiss that boy’s cheek, too. _

_ He reaches out towards the TV, the static of the screen tickling his palm as if reaching out to him, as we;;. He wants to feel, to pretend to feel, to lie to himself that this is anything he could have because— _

_ The bottle comes out of nowhere and, yet, Patrick knows exactly who to blame. His father’s beer crashes against the side of the TV set, spraying alcohol across the screen and on Patrick’s face. Patrick scurries back with a shriek as glass shoots across the living room floor.  _

_ His father looms in the hallway, the same way he always does when he catches Patrick doing something he shouldn’t. Patrick’s heart, singing and tearing itself open with raw emotions, shuts back up with a terrified clenching feeling.  _

_ The last time Patrick had felt like this, his father had thrown more than just one beer bottle and not all of the glass escaped Patrick's skin. _

_ “Turn that shit off,” his father says, his words as twisted as his lips. “And don’t be getting any fucking ideas. I’m raising you to be a businessman, not a fucking faggot.” _

_ Solitude settles into Patrick’s skin long before his father turns to leave. His throat aches with the need to cry and tears sting him more harshly than those words had. He hadn’t understood them all, hadn’t had the chance to comprehend the anger, but his father’s tone had told him enough— as if the shattered glass around him hadn’t already. _

_ Patrick shuts off the TV with a shaking hand, swallowing down bouts of nausea as he does so. The boy from before is long gone but Patrick doesn’t care. _

_ The sight of that kiss is better left in Patrick’s memories, after all. _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Though the snowstorm paused its attack on the city mere moments after Patrick fled the candy shop, he’s still stuck in the most unfavorable weather the skies could throw. The air sticks to him with a particularly cold, particularly wet sensation, coating his eyelashes and melting like tears down his cheeks.

This is how Mikey Way finds him: the same way he and his brother did three years ago. Covered in ice and regrets, aching from a humiliation far deeper than either of them could see. Patrick turns his head when Mikey draws close, confusion dusted across his handsome features.

“Patrick?” Mikey asks as if he hadn’t recognized him the second he stepped out from his car. “What are you doing out here? It’s cold and, besides, shouldn’t the shop be open by now? I expect you to have these things done, you know. Especially with… with Gerard coming by.”

Patrick nods and peels himself away from the wall he’d been leaning upon, a chill going down his spine as it’s exposed to the cold air again. He follows Mikey to the store, hoping he was correct in assuming Gabe would have no reason to stay.

“Patrick, are you listening?” Mikey asks and Patrick looks over, almost apologetic. 

Mikey’s good people and Patrick could do to respect him a bit more. He and his brother were the first to give him a real chance upon realizing how hopeless his situation had been, away from home and abandoned by all those who might care. The two had been setting up a candy shop at the time and, after listening to the story of a poor boy they found sleeping in the cold, offered Patrick a job. They couldn’t pay much but they could refurbish the upper floor into a temporary living area— they could keep Patrick safe until he felt good enough to go out on his own.

Eventually, Gerard’s ventures in music took off and he left the shop to Mikey’s capable hands. Mikey decided to keep Patrick around. He claims that it’s for the extra help but, Patrick knows, it’s really because he gets lonely without his brother. 

Loneliness and, Patrick thinks with a bitter twist in his thoughts, the extra cash Patrick provides him when the crowds are thick and money’s tight. A candy shop isn’t exactly the business it once was, after all, and Mikey’s debts rest all too easily on Patrick’s helpless shoulders.

“Patrick!” Mikey whines, shoving him with an exasperated sigh once they reach the store. Patrick pauses cautiously, trying to peer through the windows to see if anyone remains. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?”

“No, sorry,” Patrick says absent-mindedly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. He glances over the one-room shop, waiting for Gabe or one of his friends to jump out and scare him. When nothing happens and he’s greeted with blessed emptiness, he sighs.

“Well? Do you have a reason for standing outside in the middle of a blizzard?” Blizzard’s an extreme term for the storm that had occurred but Patrick doesn’t call Mikey on it. Instead, he turns and does the one thing he’s been wanting to do since Gabe rejected him. 

He screams.

“Gabe Saporta can go to fucking hell!” He shouts, turning and kicking over an empty cardboard box. “He’s an ass and, yeah, I’m an idiot but am I supposed to be sorry I believed it when he said he… he fucking  _ cared  _ about me? Is that what we’re doing now? Apologizing for expecting someone to be a decent fucking human being? Because I did not… I did  _ not  _ leave my home for this shit! Candy boxes and stealing and learning that, oh, apparently, Gabe Saporta’s so much more important than I’ll ever be and, apparently, that means I can’t ever even look in his fucking direction again.” He kicks the box again, ignoring Mikey’s protests. “Fuck this so hard. I hope his career fucking tanks.”

“Patrick!” Mikey snaps, catching Patrick’s attention at last. Patrick turns, a frustrated swear on his lips. 

“Oh, can I fucking just get this off my— Oh.” Patrick stops, eyes widening when he sees he and Mikey are no longer the only two in the store. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you come in.”

A head of yellow hair and a smile of teeth a size too small greet Patrick with an excited laugh. “Hey, Trick.”

Patrick winces at the nickname but smiles anyway, his voice odd and distorted. “Hey, Gee.”

Gerard and his friend, a fellow musician named Frank, look out of place in the dusty candy store, the lights still not entirely on in the building. Patrick gets to work setting the shop up, hiding the broom from before, and does his best not to appear too embarrassed. Of course, the appearance is only that: appearance.

“So what brings you guys down?” Mikey asks. “I thought you weren’t coming by until the afternoon.”

“We got in early,” Gerard says, leaning against the counter. “The label meeting’s tomorrow, sure, but we figured we can hide from them a bit longer. All the artists on Decaydance came down at the same time and that’s bound to be a mess.”

Well, Patrick thinks, that certainly explains Gabe’s presence. He scoffs to himself, a bit louder than he means to when he says, “Everything’s a mess with Gabe around.”

The room goes quiet, all eyes on Patrick. Between one heartbeat and the next, Gerard frowns. “You know Gabe?”

Every bone in Patrick’s body seems to dissolve and he remembers that he had never quite told the Ways his entire life’s story. They know he came from a rich family but they don’t know how important that family is. They know he was in love and searching for another boy but they don’t know who that boy might be.

They know enough but they don’t know it all.

“Oh, lay off,” Frank says, rolling his eyes. “You know Gabe doesn’t waste his time on us common folk.” 

It’s a joke at Gabe’s expense, sarcasm about his superiority and self-important attitude, but Patrick still seethes at the words. A defense leaps to his tongue, thick and acrid as he wonders what would happen if he told them who he was, if he described in detail just how he knows Gabe so well. Nobody would consider him common, then; nobody would dare call him ‘no one.’

“I’m going upstairs,” he says instead, turning from Mikey before anyone can see his flushed face. “I… I forgot the keys and we’ll need them if we plan on getting anything stocked today.”

It’s a terrible lie and he’s lucky Mikey lets him get away with it. 

“Oh, hey,” Gerard says, shrugging off the bag hanging on his shoulder. “Can you take this up? I was gonna show Frank the city but our hotel won't let us check in till later. I so don’t want to be lugging this around the entire time. We can pick it up when we get back tonight, if that’s cool.”

“Yeah, of course,” Patrick says, mostly because he has no choice. Wounded pride wells up in his chest but he swallows it down with a smile, nodding towards Mikey before turning and heading towards the stairs. 

Memories dimmer than the dusty light of the upper room fill his mind as he tosses Gerard’s bag to the floor and collapses on the bed. The room is small and dark and, Patrick imagines, if he didn’t spend a little over a year on the streets, he’d hate it. 

When he first moved in, it took months to accept that this was his life now— a poor man working a candy shop and pickpocketing to earn favor with his boss. Mikey never did explain why he needs the money so badly— something about blackmail and secrets— but he always shuts the store early if Patrick provides him with enough stolen cash, running out to meet with whoever it is that keeps demanding the payments. Patrick doesn't mind, so long as Mikey returns unharmed; a shut store gives Patrick time to sit alone in his room and pretend things aren’t as bad as they feel.

Right now, though, with the store open and a couple of musicians beneath him, nothing feels worse. 

Patrick curls his hands into fists to keep from throwing anything, his teeth clenched together to keep from screaming again. There’s no door to keep him safe from anyone who might wander up and the last thing he wants is for someone to see him lose his temper over an idiot like Gabe.

And he certainly doesn’t want anyone to see him lose control of his emotions, either.

Patrick bends forward, hands finding his hair and tugging because he’s  _ not  _ going to cry about Gabe, of all people. Even the thought of it is humiliating and terrible and awful and—

And Patrick squeezes his eyes shut anyway, hating every pinprick of heat stinging them when he thinks of how easily Gabe tossed him to the side, how easily he saw him as nothing more than a piece of his past— as nothing, at all.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, convincing them to hold the tears back long enough for him to pretend they don’t exist. It’s a tactic he’s used in the past, though the outcomes have been less than desirable.

It’s harder, too, when Gabe’s words play on repeat in his mind, a cruel song with nowhere else to go and no one else to hear. The way he’d pretended to be kind, to be sorry, to not mean anything he said though Patrick would recognize his sincerity anywhere… It burns worse than the cold outside.

Protesting thoughts and tired memories carry his emotions into a darker place, repeating his shame and reliving his humiliation with one sentence on replay:  _ he’s no one _

This isn’t the way Gabe’s ever treated him. Gabe always taught him was someone to be admired and loved and adored.

Gabe used to treat him like he was someone; Gabe used to treat him like he was everything.

Breaths come too quick and Patrick tears at his bangs, blood rushing through his ears with a terrible ripping noise. Though light and snow stain the window, Patrick’s room has suddenly gone dark— with fear, with panic, with memories he never knew how to leave behind. The emotions crowding his heart and mind no longer crackle with threats— they roar.

There’s nothing fair about Gabe being the one to make it so far but, then, Gabe’s always been the perfect one, hasn’t he? Of course, he would beat Patrick at this, of course, he would leave Patrick behind, of course, he wouldn’t need a mess like him, after all. Patrick can feel resentment and grief as a living thing inside him, a monster bent on devouring him whole. 

Because Gabe always had a plan in his life and Patrick only ever had Gabe.

_ NO _

Patrick jerks up, strands of hair sticking between his fingers as he does so. 

No, he hasn’t always had Gabe because, first, he had to have himself. Before he was no one, he was Trick— a trickster, a mess of mischief, a self-proclaimed survivor of things no one knows. And he’s not going to lose to a brat who broke his heart; he can’t afford to.

The world comes back in brushstroke bits; it fades back in with the frailty of watercolors. Music drifts up from downstairs and Patrick imagines Mikey must have revealed the guitars he keeps safe in the backroom, particularly for moments when his brother visits.

Because Gerard only visits when there’s music involved— and music is something none of the Ways know as part of Patrick’s past.

Patrick sinks to his knees beside the bed, reaching for Gerard’s bag and opening it slowly. He digs through the contents with a pounding heart, hands steady only because he’s been doing crimes like this for too long. This, though, isn’t a crime for Mikey; it’s one concocted solely by and for himself.

_ I know _ , Patrick thinks,  _ what I need to do. _

He finds Gerard’s wallet buried near the bottom, probably tossed in and forgotten when he first started packing. Patrick holds his breath as he opens it up, searching for the card he’d seen only once— a card Gerard had shown off when he was accepted into one of the nation’s largest record labels.

A card reading  _ Decaydance Artist Pass. _

Solid sheets of certainty crash down on Patrick as he packs everything back into the bag, the card stuffed into his back pocket. He doesn’t have an exact plan for it yet but he knows what he can do with it. Like a press pass, it will let him into places only a specific group of others can access; like a key, it will let him walk right into Decaydance’s headquarters a handful of miles deeper into the city.

Guilt is hard to come by when he remembers Frank’s joke and Gabe’s description of him, the ease in which people compare him to something less than themselves. He’s sure, later, when he’s speaking to Gerard or listening to Mikey worry about him, the guilt will paralyze and choke him, suffocate and drown and burn him from the inside out. He has morals and he has a conscience but he’s willing to set them both aside for now.

Gerard’s voice comes closer, followed by the tell-tale sound of someone climbing up the stairs. There’s no time to think, no time to regret or turn back, as Patrick kicks the bag away and runs to the desk on the other side of the room, searching for a set of keys he knows is already downstairs.

“Hey.” When Gerard speaks, Patrick’s heart threatens to tear free from his chest— to hide or confess, he’s unsure. Patrick turns, for once glad about the dimmer lights as he prays for Gerard not to notice the redness of his cheeks. “Mikey said the keys were by the register.”

“Oh, are they?” Patrick asks, lying with a desperation he’s never lied with before. “Sorry, I must have forgotten. It was an early morning and I’m all frazzled.”

“No problem.” Gerard shrugs, smiling kinder than Patrick will ever deserve after today. “I do the same. If it wasn’t stuck in my body, I’d misplace my heart every night.”

Patrick’s laugh is choked and forced. “Poetic.” 

“Nah, just logic,” Gerard says with a wink. “Keep your heart in its cage, Patrick, but if you’re gonna lose it, lose it to someone fun.”

Patrick brushes his fingers against his pocket, electricity numbing his arm from the contact with his sin. 

“Oh, I don’t plan on losing anything anytime soon,” he says. “I’m gonna focus on gaining a few things of my own first.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos fuel my soul.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr! Username is hum-my-name :)


	5. Every Wound Can Be Forgotten In The Right Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every wound can be forgotten in the right light. But let's not forget that they'll tell you all the rules to break...
> 
> To take away that light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! This fic really is a labor of love so I hope you're all enjoying it. This chapter's far shorter than I usually like to aim for but, event-wise, it's exactly what I had in my outlines so adding any more would just throw the whole thing off. Regardless, please let me know what you think! Maybe I'll do a longer one to make up for it next time, haha, who knows?
> 
> Please read, enjoy, and comment!

Patrick’s heart and mind are cruel that night, tugging at each other with a dirty conscience and a messy amalgamation of what-if situations. He lies in bed with eyes shut tight, Gerard’s card kept beneath his palm as if it might pounce and tear him to shreds should he let go. As sleep inches forward, a teasing touch against his eyelids and thoughts, a wounded expression curls his mouth and causes his fingers to twitch.

He doesn’t scheme and he doesn’t plan— doesn’t dare imagine what he can do with a key to something that used to be a vivid dream, now just a sepia-toned nightmare tinged with sour regrets. If he lingers on hope, any loss will destroy him.

For this reason, he tells himself not to dream. Sleep keeps her hands away, the cool caress of rest stroking his throat with nothing but temptation. Should he dream, should he hope, he will most definitely fall.

Or so his heart says; or says his mind swears.

He waits until the sky has changed, the ever-present romance of night peeling away from the sky with the slowest of urgency. Patrick’s back aches from the way he’s curled in on himself, spine prodding at the wall, but he dare not turn away now. He needs to know the day has come. When he presses his palm flat against the card, he needs to know this is more than imagined scenes found in sleep.

Pale blues dazzle the sky, that shade between midnight and dawn that causes Patrick’s unease to grow as if something from his past has returned to haunt him. The street lights still lit outside his window contrast like suns against the still-blinking stars and Patrick remembers the days he’d awake at this time for business trips, a handful of early flights into an office that looks exactly the same as the last. He can still recall the sharp yellow light in his bedroom as it competed against the incoming day, the mismatched puzzle pieces of bright and dark, eyes fuzzed from childhood pulling the hollow memory back into his mind. Nostalgia, cruel as the colors staining his thoughts, makes him wish, if only for a second, that he was back in the place he was told to call home.

Home.

Such a place doesn't deserve such a kind word but Patrick holds onto it anyway-- like a hope, like a card, like a dream.

Patrick shuts his eyes.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ “You’re telling me no.” _

_ Patrick keeps his eyes on the sky as he speaks, on the clouds that will one day bring him his winter storm. _

_ “... I suppose I am…” _

_ Foolishness and freedom often go hand in hand and Patrick’s far too young in knowledge to realize the proximity of the first. _

_ His father steps forward and Patrick, for the first time, realizes how grey his father's hair’s become, how white his knuckles are. _

_ “I don’t take kindly to disrespect,” his father says. Menacing and threatening— all this over a disagreement over travels? _

_ Gabe would offer nothing more than a sardonic laugh and get his way, twisting the world into a shape he likes with the simplest tug of his lips. Wit would spill from his tongue like goodbye kisses, and he’d abandon all which holds him back. _

_ Patrick knows; Patrick’s seen it. _

_ And Patrick isn’t Gabe Saporta— he isn't even close. He’s a Stumph with a name to uphold, an upcoming Gatsby with enough family wealth to buy half the country. He’s on the front of business magazines, tucked between the ever-loved David and Patricia with the practiced look of prestige. _

_ Today, he wants to turn his back just a little. _

_ Just a little. _

_ Patrick straightens his back— his father’s never been a tall man, only ever a cruel one— and raises his chin. He hides trembling hands in his pockets and pretends it’s okay that he can’t meet the blue dullness of his father’s gaze. _

_ “Perhaps we should just talk,” he tries. _

_ His father tenses. _

_ “Talk,” he says, pronouncing the word like it’s a childish joke, like it’s an offered game of hide-and-seek. “Okay, then, Rick. Let’s talk.” _

_ His father's words twist like water-- clear enough to show the dangers swimming beneath. _

_ Patrick knows the danger like the bruises on his back. Slowly, cautiously, he steps away. “Wait.” _

_ And he pronounces the word like it’s a mistake. _

_ “Father.”  _

_ Patrick pronounces it like it’s a fear. _

_ "Father, I--" _

 

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

\--Patrick wakes to darkness as thick as the cry lodged in his throat. His head tosses back against his pillow, cold sweat sticking to his neck and chest as if this nightmare— this dream, this memory— is anything new at all.

Juvenile anger hammers through each of Patrick’s heartbeats, frustration that such a stupid thing could still haunt him even after so many years— four? Five? They still feel like days— have past. 

Patrick lets the corners of Gerard’s card dig into his palm as he scrambles for comfort and breath. He allows the sting to bring him back to earth; he allows himself to pretend this is the night he gets over it. 

“He’s not here,” Patrick whispers, his voice all wrong-- too deep, too forceful, too much like the man still harming him from cities away. “He’s not here and… and his words mean nothing. Nothing.”

Wind slams against the window and Patrick jerks at the sound, so violent he imagines the glass may break. He blinks and it’s suddenly Fall— autumn kissing the end of summer, winter merely a dream. His grip on the card tightens; he wonders why he can’t feel the edges anymore. 

As the wind howls, he suddenly realizes he feels so

_ sick. The taste of bile and blood stain his mouth, bruises coating the rest of his senses as he _

turns over, hiding his face and gasping breaths within the rough fabric of the pillow he’d been granted. It smells like old sour candy and burnt caramel, dust and everything his family never owned. He loses track of the card as he covers his hand with musty blankets, his voice cracking in tune with the wind whistling outside. 

“No, stop,” he pleads, unaware he’s doing so until the word’s already left his mouth. Though he'd never call it pleading, it’s

_ begging, screaming, needing for everything to pause if only for a heartbeat— if only just his heartbeat. This isn’t how a conversation should go, he knows, and this isn’t the talk he suggested. This is a thing of _

nightmares play within Patrick’s mind, the way they always have, heart freezing and stopping and beginning with all the pressure of broken ice each time he breathes. Fear and frustration colliding on his tongue and he loses track of what he says. There’s something he won’t dare call sadness etching itself deep into his ribs, cracking his bones and waiting for him to give in. He tries to move away but he's trapped between

_ fists and walls and shining boots. Patrick’s breaths come too quick and he doesn’t want this man to see how he shakes, doesn’t want to admit to who this is. He doesn’t want to see him rain down more blows so _

Patrick shuts his eyes even tighter than before, whining into the pillow and wincing at the muffled sound. The vibrations from his own cry echo back at him in the worst sense, tremoring against his hand when tries to hide further sounds in his palm. 

His other hand finds the card— perhaps it never left— and Patrick focuses on the simple plastic pressed into his fingertips. He wonders how tight he'd have to hold to scrape all evidence of his existence away.

This, at last, eases him. His heart stills enough to recognize the gift in his hand and, for a moment, his vision of the future is

_ “—so perfect! You can’t expect me to stay so perfect!” Patrick cries again and again, his breaths ragged as he _

opens his eyes.

_ “Perfect,” his father repeats. “You weren’t ever...” _

Patrick shoves the memories away with more ease than he’s had in the past. The card makes itself known in his hand, the only thing he feels and the only thing that matters.

He suddenly understands why this dream has reappeared after months of nothing.

What’s the point of a plan if there isn’t a motive? What’s the point of joy if there was never pain?

And what’s the point of a person if there isn’t perfection?

Patrick brings the card to his chest, both hands wrapped around it.

He can be everything he never was.

He can be 

_ “… perfect.” _

 

 

__ __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I mean, I like it? It's short but I love messing around with formatting and weird things like that so let me know what you think! Always good to know if an idea comes across the right way, haha.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's commented! Please continue to do so, it makes me smile so much :)

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, there's a ton to come. Like I said in the summary it's LOOSELY based on Truant Wave. The Truant Wave bit will be made evident soon enough but I did take liberties with length/interpretation, haha. So stick around!


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